Edward Looks At Rain
From the late afternoon on there had been something of a drenched, warm feeling to the early January air; an odd soddeness, expected at other times of the year, but most unusual for a winter month. The big white dog had noticed. He knew the rain was purported to be arriving as a dramatic escort to a much colder tomorrow, and for that he was glad. But, still. Rain. His least favourite sort of weather. No walk tonight. For even though his lady had received the black wellies she had asked for at Christmas, he knew she cared far too much for him to take him on an outing in the pouring rain. He would have to get his paws wet, and that was the one thing in life he really, really hated. He hopped up on the window seat to watch the skies and ponder the miserable sensation of wet paws.
The rain was preceded by chariots of wind that galloped through the tops of the tall trees at breakneck speed, occasionally reaching down to the garden floor with a gust that would vacuum up the leftover, paperthin leaves in a tornadic whirl of brown and grey. The big dog watched it all at the window and thought about his paws. Then finally, around midnight, just as they all were heading down the hallway to bed, it came. Rain. He could hear it... blitzing the roof above him, racing down the gutters, pounding its drowned wetness deep into the ground - ground that, tomorrow, he would have to trod on, walk through - ground that would probably get his paws wet. Bother. He sighed. But then his lady smiled and told him not to worry. She reminded him that being snug and dry inside on a stormy night was really a very good thing. Effortlessly, he leaped up to take his normal place atop the downy bed and laid his big white head on her feet as she opened another of those books of which she is so fond. He sighed again. He had to admit, the sound of the rain was pleasing. His large almond eyes felt so heavy, so he closed them. His lady patted his head and told him that the rain would be over before he awoke in the morning - that it would be a much colder, sunnier day tomorrow, and that he would love it, and they would go for a long afternoon walk and .... but he never heard her. He was asleep.
Edward sets off for his walk on the sunnier tomorrow
Painting above: The Thunderstorm by Vincent Van Gogh